


A Different Way

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Deaf Jason Todd, Gen, Jason Todd is Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jason Todd has to learn to navigate a world without sound.His father, Bruce Wayne, isn't going to let him do it alone.*Slight mentions of violence





	A Different Way

In the end, it was the head trauma that caused it. Of course it was.

One misstep. One bad decision. Jason ignored direct orders.

“Don’t go after them on your own,” Batman had said, in that same rough tone he always seemed to use with his Robins when they were dangerously close to stepping out of line. “Let me handle it.”

For the most part, that was all Jason recalled of that night: disobeying his father. There were brief flashes of a fight he couldn’t quite remember being in—of his head getting ruthlessly slammed against the concrete beneath him. He could practically taste the blood on his lips when he thought about how hard he must’ve been hit. Then, there was nothing. When he woke up later on, lying on a cot in the Batcave, he was immensely confused as to how he’d gotten there in the first place.

Bruce was asleep on a chair just outside the med bay, laying in such an awkward position that Jason knew he’d have a crick in his neck when he woke up. He seemed like he hadn’t slept in a long time; twin dark circles sat just beneath his eyes, a harsh shade of purple under the fluorescent lights. Stubble had begun to grow on his chin, an unusual development for someone who usually preferred to be clean-shaven.

Jason was concerned. Tossing his legs over the side of the cot, he stood, gripping the edge of the bed to keep himself from pitching forward. His knees wobbled slightly as if he hadn’t used them in days. He had a pounding, almost debilitating headache that seemed to get worse with movement. 

And then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realized he couldn’t hear it. Not the sound of the sheets rustling beneath his fingers, or his feet as they hit the frigid cave floor. He couldn’t hear the bats, or the waterfall, or even his own breathing.

He must’ve made some kind of startled noise because Bruce’s eyes snapped open. In a flash, the older man was standing in front of him, carefully guiding the boy back onto the cot. His lips moved as he tried to ask a million questions all at once.

When he got no reply, his brow furrowed in concern. Usually, his son would’ve told him to quit worrying before running off to reread Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time. That was how he always was: blunt and bright. A smart kid with an attitude.

Now he had a terrified look in his eyes. One Bruce hadn’t seen in a long while. “Jaylad?”

Jason blinked back tears, slouching forward into his father’s arms and holding onto him for dear life. “I can’t hear, B,” he murmured, his words slow and careful. He gasped for air, trying desperately to fight off the beginning of what he thought was a panic attack. “I can’t hear a thing.”

* * *

In the weeks that followed his son’s injury, Bruce Wayne devoted himself to helping Jason learn sign language. Though some of the boy’s hearing had returned, it wasn’t nearly enough to make out most words—especially not in loud places. It was more like a dull hum; it was enough to know when someone was trying to get his attention, but not enough to decipher what was being said.

Jason got frustrated easily. He mixed up his A’s and S’s, and couldn’t quite remember how to ask for someone’s name. Most of the time, he reverted to speaking with his voice, pronouncing every syllable slower than he usually would to be sure he was saying it right.

And that was fine by Bruce; he respected that preference. Still, he thought it important for his son to learn the language that was now his own. Jason could talk, yes, but he couldn’t hear or read lips. How he chose to communicate to the world was his own decision, but the world still needed a way to talk back.

So every night when Jason came home from school and Bruce got back from work, the two would sit at the kitchen table and work on it together. It was a slow process that was tedious in every way. Jason would get fed up and storm off. Bruce would give him space. And Alfred, bless his soul, would fix a pot of tea to calm everyone’s fraught nerves.

Jason was always livid. He was mad at the world, mad at himself—so inconceivably angry that it drove him to excessive violence and explosive outbursts. When he got upset, which happened more and more often as time progressed, he started to throw things at his bedroom wall. First, it was pillows, then pens, then books and breakables. Eventually, he destroyed anything he could get his hands on, all in the effort to expel even an ounce of the anguish he was feeling.

And Bruce heard all of it through the walls. Every frustrated yell. Every smashed mirror. The pain in his boy’s voice as he cursed any god that would listen.

So, a year and a half into the whole ordeal, Bruce pulled his son into the foyer of the manor. He led him wordlessly to where the piano sat, just off to the side of the door, and had the teen lay his hand flat against the lid of the grand piano. Without explanation, Bruce began to play a song his own father had taught him once in his childhood.

Though Jason couldn’t really hear it, he could _feel_ them. Every little vibration through the polished wood made his nerves spark, and if he concentrated hard enough, he almost thought he could feel a difference between each note. When the song drew to an end, he looked at his father expectantly, wanting an explanation.

‘ _You can’t hear’,_ Bruce signed, making sure to keep his gestures slow enough that Jay could keep up. ‘ _That doesn’t mean you can’t live. You just have to learn to experience the world a little differently.’_

Much to his surprise, Jason understood most of what his dad had said; enough of it that he could figure out the entire sentence on his own. For the first time in a long while, that childlike spark in his eyes returned. Maybe he really _could_ do this after all. _‘Bruce?’_ Jason asked, his movements clumsy and quick.

‘ _Yes son?_ ’

‘ _Thank you.’_


End file.
